Recap:

Driven by vengeance for his father’s murder, Pasupati assassinates Narobha, but is swiftly killed by Jeyasinghan, who seizes the throne. Parvata Vardini mourns Narobha, while the vengeful spirit of Maran Saththan revels in the bloodshed. Jeyasinghan, plagued by paranoia and guilt, attempts to eliminate Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan, but their lives are saved by the unexpected intervention and sacrifice of the seemingly insane Sivappi.

Chapter 23/26: Silent Subversion

Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’

Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan – the sons of Pasupati and Bharatan and grandsons of Parvata Vardini – reached the Darma Kriti Vihara, a monastery nestled on a hilltop.

On their journey, they buried Sivappi by a jungle stream, marking her grave with a small rock. Their walk through the enchanting jungle was filled with tiger butterflies and plantain squirrels darting above the flowing water. The mountainous terrain consisted of a series of hills, each slope ending at a stream before the next uphill began. Some streams were knee-deep, and slippery rocks made crossing treacherous. These streams proved vital, providing drinking water as they carried no food and had no time to forage, knowing Panbalan and Jeyasinghan would be hunting them in the forest.

The Darma Kriti Vihara was administered by Ratna Manjunatha, an influential priest and a former student of Purvadasa Nagadutta, the priest of Taravati and father of Rajmata Parvata Vardini. He was surprised to see the two princes arrive at such an odd hour. He offered them refreshments and instructed his kitchen staff to prepare food for them.

As they descended into the nearby pond, where water flowed from sculpted figures – the mouth of a tiger, the breasts of a dancing woman, and the phallus of a squatting boy – the princes couldn’t help but smile. These artistic expressions, a fusion of local cultures, had originated in Suwarnadvipa.

A bikshu approached, offering towels and sarongs woven from tree bark. His face seemed familiar to Srikrishna – the same bikshu who occasionally visited his grandmother, Parvata Vardini. Yet, the bikshu gave no sign of recognition, simply leaving the offerings by the pond before departing with a strange demeanor.

At that unusual hour, after their arduous trek up and down hills with only stream water to sustain them, the simple porridge offered by the kitchen staff tasted like nectar to the weary princes.

Since the princes had sought refuge with him, Ratna Manjunatha listened intently to their story the next morning. While the princes relaxed, Manjunatha instructed his students to keep a vigilant watch on the surrounding hills for any signs of pursuit.

***

Meanwhile, in Taravati, the situation remained tense. Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan were missing, and so was Panbalan, Jeyasinghan’s military leader. People whispered that Jeyasinghan was behind it. People began to question Jeyasinghan’s authority, and a palpable unease settled over the kingdom.

Jeyasinghan, consumed by paranoia, became increasingly withdrawn, seeking solace in palm toddy. He would often wake up in the middle of the night, startled by nightmares, shouting in his sleep. Although he had become king, he was viewed as a usurper, and the loyalty of the people, particularly the palace attendants, remained firmly with Parvata Vardini. This created a deep rift within the court, dividing supporters of Jeyasinghan from those who remained loyal to the memory of Narobha and the rightful heirs.

A few days later, one of Manjunatha’s students alerted his master about a man approaching the monastery, a sword sheathed at his hip. The student informed Manjunatha and instructed the princes to retreat to the underground chamber beneath the statue of the Dhyani Buddha and seal the entrance.

The unexpected visitor was none other than Panbalan. Upon seeing the abbot from a distance, Panbalan raised his right hand, clenched into a fist, and touched his left chest. This was a secret gesture, a symbol of allegiance to Parvata Vardini and Narobha.

Manjunatha, Srikrishna, and Anirudhdhan gathered in the prayer room. Srikrishna was initially suspicious of Panbalan, but Manjunatha reassured him, “My dear princes, Panbalan works directly under Queen Parvata Vardini. The Queen Mother met him once as a child in a temple. He bravely asked her for a tender coconut.” Manjunatha smiled. “Impressed, she funded his education at Nalanda Mahavihara in the Gupta Kingdom and later appointed him to oversee her intelligence network.”

After a pause, he continued, “He was the grandson of her associate Sivappi, the seemingly mad old woman who just died fighting Jeyasinghan’s men. Sivappi and the Queen Mother were educated together at Purvadasa’s monastery. Panbalan is well-educated, intelligent, and was sent as a mole to Jeyasinghan’s court. Despite the close watch kept by Panbalan and Sivappi, these unfortunate events still occurred.”

When Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan turned towards him, Panbalan stood up, keeping his fist clenched against his chest and saying, “Hail our motherland, Taravati. Hail our mother, Rajmata Sridevi Parvata Vardini.” Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan echoed his words.

Astonished by his grandmother’s hidden network, Anirudhdhan inquired, “Why did Sivappi ask us to meet you?”

Manjunatha explained, “In a way, all three of us share the same guru – Purvadasa Nagadutta. When he was brutally murdered, I took over his monastery and shared the information I gathered with the queen. So, I have knowledge of important royal events and have been consulted, not by the kings, but by the queen herself.”

“I am aware of the growing discontent and the divisions within Jeyasinghan’s court,” Manjunatha stated. “A small spark can ignite a major conflagration. We need to stir things up, to make people turn against each other.”

“But how?” Panbalan asked.

“I will take care of that,” Manjunatha replied. “I will be leaving for Taravati in a couple of days. I will stay at Sumedha Vihara. It belongs to the Bodhisattva Temple. That’s where Parvata Vardini often offers prayers there on new moon and full moon nights. You will meet me there on that day. at the same place” Manjunatha pointed at the three of them. “No one should see you until you meet me.”

***

On the day of the new moon, Srikrishna, Anirudhdhan, and Panbalan left the monastery and began their descent down the mountain. As the sun began to set, they reached the outskirts of Taravati. Being the same age and facing a common enemy forged a bond among them.

As it was a customary practice, Jeyasinghan’s spies did not closely monitor Parvata Vardini’s visits to the Sumedha Vihara. After her prayers, she met with Manjunatha, the abbot from the Darma Kriti Vihara. Three young women approached, greeting the queen with deep respect. Parvata Vardini, a knowing smile gracing her lips, blessed them and offered each a flower from her talam, the brass plate.

That night, an unusual darkness descended upon the palace. The number of oil torches seemed to be fewer than usual, casting long, eerie shadows. The mournful hoots of Javan scops owls added to the disquieting atmosphere. Suddenly, a figure cloaked in black emerged from the shadows, silently moving through the palace.

One of Jeyasinghan’s guards, hardcore supporter of Jeyasinghan, patrolling the area, noticed the intruder. He challenged the figure, but before he could react, the intruder swiftly silenced him, slitting his throat with a single, swift motion. The guard’s body slumped to the ground, a silent testament to the darkness that had descended upon the palace.

Panic erupted as the other guards, alerted by the fallen guard’s choked ‘hrrk… kreeehh’ sound, rushed to investigate. The palace plunged into chaos as guards shouted warnings and drew their weapons.

“Rajmata’s people must have done this!” someone yelled. “Let’s kill them all! all of them!” another exclaimed, leaping forward.

—

Mindmap (click to zoom):

I’m participating in #BlogchatterA2Z

Note:

• This fiction is a retelling of a mythology.
• Images generated with ImageFx of Google Gemini.
• Awkward sentences are removed by AI for a smoother reading experience.

Recap:

Driven by Parvata Vardini’s revelations about his true parentage and Narobha’s treachery, Pasupati is consumed by vengeance. His mother reveals that Narobha murdered his father, Tungabhadra, using the cursed Keris. Pasupati, fueled by this knowledge, retrieves the Keris with the help of the loyal Nambi, setting a deadly plan in motion. Narobha is assassinated by the loyal Nambi, who is then immediately killed by Pasupati. However, Pasupati is then betrayed and murdered by Jeyasinghan, who usurps the throne.

Chapter 22/26: Uprising

Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’

Jeyasinghan was swimming in the Manvi River, near its source in the Madana forest. Butterflies and bees competed for nectar from clusters of jasmine blooms, while a peacock displayed its magnificent plumage, attempting to impress two peahens nearby. As the scenery glided past, Jeyasinghan reached the Padmanabhi natural spring, considered the river’s source.

Suddenly, he felt paralyzed, unable to swim despite his best efforts. Turning, he saw himself ensnared by the coils of two gigantic pythons, their bodies disappearing deep into the forest. Their heads remained unseen, and their massive forms filled half the forest, their scales shimmering in the sunlight as their bodies intertwined and slithered.

Terrified, Jeyasinghan struggled but couldn’t even inch forward. He tried to scream but couldn’t utter a sound. The pythons began to constrict, their coils tightening around him, causing excruciating pain as his bones threatened to snap.

The snakes reared up, their heads towering over him. To his horror, Jeyasinghan saw that the snakes had human faces – the faces of Brahmadasan Srikrishna, son of Pasupati whom he murdered, and Anirudhdhan Chandramurti, the son of Bharatan Paramesvara, the son of Narobha and Parvata Vardini.

Their faces were green, their eyes bloodshot and terrifying. As they opened their mouths, Jeyasinghan saw their crimson tongues flicking out, threatening to engulf him. He recognized them, a chilling realization gripping him.

Their fangs resembled keris, and rings adorned their necks like the conch bangles of the Pandya land. With a predatory grace, each snake positioned itself on either side of Jeyasinghan, their fangs slowly sinking into his neck, inflicting agonizing pain.

Screaming, Jeyasinghan awoke from his bed, drenched in sweat. The nightmare left him trembling.

On the day he murdered Pasupati, Jeyasinghan had been consumed by fear induced by paranoia. After the deed was done, he saw Sivappi, the eccentric old woman, hiding in the bushes nearby. She had witnessed the murder and was screaming in terror, her hair disheveled.

As the toddy wore off, replaced by the weight of his betrayal, Jeyasinghan knew he had to act fast. He stormed to his residence, used his men to seize the main palace, and took control. He gave the palace guards a simple, brutal choice: side with him or face death. Most yielded to his threats and swore loyalty.

Laughing victoriously, Jeyasinghan walked towards Pasupati’s home, his mind already claiming the queen of the man he’d just struck down. But there, blocking his path, stood Parvata Vardini. Her once dark hair now streaked with grey, unbound and cascading down her shoulders, she held a long sword, her stance radiating defiance.

“In all our history, no man in my family has ever touched another’s wife. If you want to shame yourself, face my sword! Either I win, or I’ll cut my own throat right here,” she declared, slamming her sword point into the ground. Her attendants quickly gathered around her, weapons ready. Tears streamed down her face, but her determination didn’t break. The Queen Mother of Taravati stood firm, like a mother hen shielding her chicks from a hawk.

“Narobha is burned to ash. It seems his spirit of wickedness lives on in you. If you truly desire to be king, act with courage, not like a lustful dog,” her voice resonated through the hall. Jeyasinghan, his arrogance deflated by her unwavering defiance, turned and retreated.

***

The following day, with the help of his Atharva Veda priest – since the regular priest refused to crown an unmarried man – Jeyasinghan declared himself king of Taravati and Durgavati. The coronation was a small affair, attended by only a handful of commoners and merchants. Parvata Vardini and her family pointedly stayed away.

Jeyasinghan often found himself reflecting on his actions:

‘I sought revenge for my father’s death and my own. But can I escape retribution? Has any kingdom ever survived such back-stabbing? What if I cannot escape the consequences? What if the next generation – teenagers like Brahmadasan Srikrishna or Anirudhdhan Chandramurti – seek revenge?’

The image of Parvata Vardini confronting him with her sword haunted him.

‘I’m sure she orchestrated both Narobha’s and Tungabhadra’s deaths. She seems innocent to his followers, but she’s cunning and deadly to those who threaten her. She disregarded her own husbands. Will she ever care for me?’

The following day, he exiled both princes to Durgavati, the kingdom on the other side of Mount Ranadhira – Srikrishna to the north and Anirudhdhan to the south, while keeping them under close surveillance. However, his paranoia continued to torment him. He couldn’t sleep well, always jumpy at any little noise.

The one who faces their enemy sleeps soundly, but the betrayer knows no rest.

***

On the anniversary of Narobha’s death, rituals took place along the Manvi River. All family gathered, including Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan. Afterward, Jeyasinghan, forcing a smile, invited the two youths to stay longer for a hunt the next day.

During the hunt, Jeyasinghan instructed Panbalan, his loyal aide and military head, to isolate and kill Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan, staging it as a tiger attack.

They rode out on horses, followed by slow ox carts carrying supplies, leaving the city, crossing border farms, and reaching the Ranadhira foothills. The king and the princes entered the rainforest.

“Prince, this path leads to a grassland teeming with striped rabbits, their meat tender and delicious!” Panbalan suggested. They agreed. Panbalan went first, then Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan, with Jeyasinghan last. The teens, no fools, noticed this leader-follower pattern. Despite the hunt, Panbalan didn’t offer them a bow and arrow, remained unused on his horse. Aware of Jeyasinghan’s nature, they exchanged knowing glances.

Reaching a flat grassfield nestled in the larger hill, they saw the sun-baked peak and the knee-high green patches on the slope. They dismounted, and their assistants gathered their tools – like glass lenses from Zhongguo, short dagger and bow and arrow from Tamil land – together.

“Look at this track,” Panbalan said, studying the grass. Jeyasinghan, Srikrishna, and Anirudhdhan approached.

“This is their usual path. We’ll set traps along it in several places and then hunt. We might get something by evening. What do you think?”

Anirudhdhan bent to examine the track, but Srikrishna heard the rasp of a sword being drawn – it was Jeyasinghan. Realizing the danger, Srikrishna kicked Anirudhdhan’s backside, yelling, “Ani, run!” He grabbed Jeyasinghan with both hands and shoved him down the slope.

The two princes sprinted uphill, deep into the forest, pursued by Panbalan and his guards. Running uphill was exhausting, and soon all were winded. But the princes couldn’t relax, feeling the constant gaze of Panbalan and his two men. Hiding behind the thick trunk of an ancient teak tree, Srikrishna and Anirudhdhan held their breath.

The jungle’s silence was broken by a cuckoo’s call, and then a Malayan ground pit viper emerged from the dry leaves, slithering directly towards their hiding place. Seeing Anirudhdhan, the snake flattened its body and began to rattle its tail.

Shocked, Srikrishna swiftly intervened, deflecting the cobra’s strike with his sword. He then swiftly slashed its neck. Anirudhdhan, stunned by Srikrishna’s quick action, hugged him in relief.

However, the commotion alerted Jeyasinghan’s men. “Heyyyy… Over there!” they shouted, rushing towards the princes.

Suddenly, Sivappi, the seemingly mad old woman, sprang from a tree branch, landing on one of the men and knocking him down. She then jabbed his eyes with her middle and index fingers. Another man, enraged, drew his sword and sliced her back, severing her arm, yelling in triumph. With a horrifying scream, she retaliated, but another sword strike brought her down.

Seeing their chance, Anirudhdhan quickly killed the soldier who had attacked Sivappi. Then, both princes hurried to her side. As Sivappi lay dying, she whispered, “Ratna….Ma.. Manju… Natha…” and pointed her one remaining arm towards the hilltop before she died.

“Oh, my mother,” Srikrishna’s voice trembled out of emotions, cradling her lifeless body. Anirudhdhan bowed his head in respect while Srikrishna’s eyes scanned for Panbalan, who had disappeared as his ambush turned against him. With Sivappi’s body resting on Srikrishna’s shoulders, they began their ascent of the hill.

—

Mindmap (click to zoom):

I’m participating in #BlogchatterA2Z

Note:

• This fiction is a retelling of a mythology.
• Images generated with ImageFx of Google Gemini.
• Awkward sentences are removed by AI for a smoother reading experience.

Recap:

Driven by Parvata Vardini’s revelations about his true parentage and Narobha’s treachery, Pasupati is consumed by vengeance. His mother reveals that Narobha murdered his father, Tungabhadra, using the cursed Keris. Pasupati, fueled by this knowledge, retrieves the Keris with the help of the loyal Nambi, setting a deadly plan in motion. The stage is set for a confrontation and a potential shift in power within the kingdom. Narobha is assassinated by the loyal Nambi, who is then immediately killed by Pasupati.

Chapter 21/26: Vicious Vanquishing

Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’

“Any ingots? Hey, Rani, got any?” Old Sivappi’s voice drifted through Neeli’s residence, a persistent drone. “The dead soul tried to carry ingots. Too heavy, abandoned in a forgotten chest.” Sivappi’s voice annoyed Neeli, who shooed her out.

Jeyasinghan had just returned from Narobha’s cremation, the flames licking the foothills of the mountain.

The crowd for Narobha (a) King Narasingha Sudan’s funeral was unprecedented. Every bloom of Taravati and Durgavati, even the tenderest buds, had been harvested for the rituals. Sandalwood of high quality, from the slopes of Mount Ranadhira, had been felled and brought forth by elephant, human, donkey, and oxcart. The funeral stage was built high on a raised platform, so everyone could see it. The path the body took was empty of flowers as they were all crushed by people walking.

A significant drama had unfolded there. Jeyasinghan had forcefully asserted his right to perform the final royal salute and lay the body upon the pyre, while Pasupati stood already adorned in the ritual attire for the same sacred duty. The priest had intervened, his voice firm, halting Jeyasinghan. “The King’s rightful heir shall perform this act.”

“What do you imply? Do you say I am illegitimate?” Jeyasinghan’s hand made a gesture towards a small flashing dagger tucked to his hip.

“Blood carries a foul scent. Ingots smell sweet, but you can’t take either from the fire,” Sivappi’s grating laughter pierced the solemnity, igniting Jeyasinghan’s fury.

The ministers and priests’ insistence on tradition, Jeyasinghan’s claim weakened, yet his ego swelled to a dangerous degree.

“Hear me, all of you,” Jeyasinghan’s voice boomed, his gaze sweeping across the assembly, finally settling on Pasupati. “You might have won now. You may even have stained your hands with my father’s blood to seize the throne. But mark my words. I am the son of Narobha, the great gambler and slayer. I possess his very essence, his might, his instincts. Let us see if these priests and ministers can shield you from my wrath.”

“To accuse someone of murder without proof is a crime in Taravati. I remind you of this,” Pasupati retorted, his voice steady despite the charged atmosphere. The priest, however, urged him to silence, reminding him that this was a time for farewell to the departed King.

Even in death, Narobha’s soul found no peace, yet he left this world with all the state honors.

Forty years after Narobha’s crowning, Taravati prepared for a new one. Coconut leaf decorations made the city feel lucky. Temples and government buildings were cleaned. Streets were swept, and turmeric water was sprinkled everywhere. Statues of gods on street corners and at doorways received many offerings, which were soon eaten by ants and sparrows.

Temporary shops were set up, and women were busy buying conch bangles from the Pandya kingdom, ceramic pots from the Song dynasty, and jems from Suwarnadvipa, along with aromatics from Suwarnabhumi. No one cooked at home because free food was given out in all anna-chatra-s.

Pasupati hoped the shadow of Narobha’s murder had faded from memory of the people. Yet, he knew doubts lingered in some hearts. However, emissaries from the ministers subtly wove positive narratives of Pasupati in bustling markets and serene temples, gently shaping public sentiment towards favor.

Parvata Vardini orchestrated a grand coronation, inviting Shivaite priests from Anuradhapura and Vaishnavite priests from Kanchipura, and Buddhist priests from Sarnath to bless Pasupati’s ascent. To turn the undercurrent of public feeling positive, she proceeded with such grand celebration.

As mangala vadyam-s, the auspicious music, filled the air, a shower of akshatas rained down from the people’s gallery towards the waiting crown, observed by Parvata Vardini from the attic. Vallabhan Pasupati became the King of the unified lands of Taravati and Durgavati. Beside him stood his queen.

Neeli hadn’t spoken since Narobha’s killing. Before the crowning, she returned to her village, even though Jeyasinghan wanted her to stay. She didn’t like politics; it scared her.

But Jeyasinghan was relentless. He sought out a priest from the Pala Kingdom, skilled in the Atharva Veda. On the very night of the coronation, under the cloak of midnight, Jeyasinghan and the priest performed secret rituals, hoping to gain power and bring about Pasupati’s demise.

Whispers of these dark practices reached the ears of the ministers and Parvata Vardini. By the seventh day of the new reign, the ministers, sensing the rising tension, proposed a meeting between Pasupati and Jeyasinghan. They hoped to avert another tragedy like Narobha’s fate.

Parvata Vardini, seeking a path to peace, agreed to appoint Jeyasinghan as a commander within the army’s leadership. The ministers conveyed this offer to Jeyasinghan and arranged for the two men to meet.

They met on a full moon day. Jeyasinghan was offered a grander palace, another for his mother in her village, and sacks of silver and gold to encourage his loyalty to Pasupati. With a seemingly agreeable smile, Jeyasinghan joined Pasupati in the backyard for palm toddy.

“We are one despite being in two bodies, my brother” Jeyasinghan said, draping an arm across Pasupati’s shoulders as he sat. Pasupati felt relieved, his longtime foe now appearing as a friend, freeing him to attend to other concerns. The evening flowed with rounds of toddy and fried fish. Soon, their laughter, fueled by the drink, echoed towards the main gate.

Around midnight, a heavy drowsiness overcame Pasupati. His head began to nod, threatening to fall asleep onto the wooden table.

Jeyasinghan stirred, a sleepy haze in his eyes, wiping a trail of saliva from his lip to the table. He tried to rouse Pasupati.
“Brother. Hello, brother…”

But Pasupati was lost to sleep. Jeyasinghan glanced around, his hand instinctively reaching behind him. He drew out the magical, cursed keris, tucked secretly at his waist, and brought it into the moonlight.

The keris gleamed. A malevolent energy seemed to pulse from it, accompanied by a chilling, silent laughter in Jeyasinghan’s mind –

Stab him. Hmmm. Yes. Why do you hesitate? Stab him. See my sharp tip. Yessss. Run your fingers along my edge. Feel how keen I am. Don’t I feel good in your hand? But you won’t truly own me, until you bury me in his flesh. Come on, it urged.

“Yesssss!” Jeyasinghan roared, rising to his feet. With all his might, he plunged the keris into Pasupati’s back. In that instant, the bright moon was abruptly swallowed by dark, ominous clouds.

—

Mindmap (Click to Zoom)

I’m participating in #BlogchatterA2Z

Note:

• This fiction is a retelling influenced by series of historic events.
• Images generated with ImageFx of Google Gemini.
• Awkward sentences are removed by AI for a smoother reading experience.

Recap:

Driven by Parvata Vardini’s revelations about his true parentage and Narobha’s treachery, Pasupati is consumed by vengeance. His mother reveals that Narobha murdered his father, Tungabhadra, using the cursed Keris. Pasupati, fueled by this knowledge, retrieves the Keris with the help of the loyal Nambi, setting a deadly plan in motion. The stage is set for a confrontation and a potential shift in power within the kingdom.

Chapter 20/26: Treacherous Termination

Part 2/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’

Narobha and Jeyasinghan came out of the palace hall. Narobha offered him a new brownish-white horse, imported by an Arab merchant. It looked mighty and powerful. The palace horse trainer received it on Jeyasinghan’s behalf and brought it to the horse tent for training.

When Jeyasinghan thanked him, Narobha patted him on the shoulder with a smile, as Pasupati watched from the aisle. Though both of them knew about Pasupati’s presence, only Jeyasinghan met his gaze eye to eye with a deceitful smile. Pasupati left at once, pretending that he didn’t mind. Jeyasinghan departed on the other side. Narobha reached his residence, refreshed himself, and stood on the terrace looking at the Manvi River. He enjoyed the sea breeze from the distant beach, enriched by its journey along the Manvi.

He was waiting for his palm toddy to begin his happy hour. Narobha turned around, expecting his attendant with the porcelain pot of toddy. But it was Nambi, Jeyasinghan’s assistant. On seeing Narobha, Nambi bowed his head in respect. Narobha didn’t mind, as Nambi often loitered inside the palace and royal homes, and turned back towards the Manvi.

A flock of parrots flew back to their mango tree near the palace after hunting all day. Narobha might not have been able to distinguish between the green parrots and the raw mangoes on the tree. The parrots’ ‘keewq.. keewq..’ calls filled the air, making the place lively and cheerful.

Nambi looked at Narobha’s back, which gleamed like a black rock, and the slight roll of flesh trying to form a bend on his belly from behind. He brought his hand to the back of his shoulder to take it – it was the unfinished-cursed-keris, glittering in the evening sunlight.

With his hand trembling, he saw the sharp tip reflecting a drop of sunlight, pulled his hand back momentarily, and then pushed the keris with full force into Narobha’s back. Before Narobha realized what was happening, the sharp keris punctured his stomach and emerged on the other side. The tip, that was holding the drop of sunlight a moment earlier, dripped Narobha’s brownish blood onto the floor.

With a wild roar that shook the surroundings, startling the parrots into flight, Narobha tried to turn and grab Nambi. As Nambi’s hand fumbled on the handle, he gripped the keris with both hands and fled, leaving a trail of blood across the corridor. He burst through the door just as Pasupati was stepping into his father’s residence.

On seeing Pasupati, Nambi, with a broad smile on his face on the successful execution of his assignment, said, “Oh, my King, I…”

Pasupati shut Nambi’s mouth with his hand, grabbed the keris from him, and stabbed him in his stomach.

“Aahhh… Maharaj…” Nambi shouted in pain.

“You thankless dog! How dare you kill my father?” Pasupati shouted and plunged the keris once again into Nambi’s stomach. Realizing what was happening, Nambi fell to the ground with a painful smile on his face.

On the other side, Parvata Vardini, hearing Narobha’s agonizing cry, raced to the stairs. The sight of him in a spreading pool of crimson made her gasp, and she instinctively reached down, her hand closing her mouth in a silent scream of shock.

But in Narobha’s fading vision, it wasn’t his wife. It was Maran Saththan, blacksmith of Panai Kulam, his face contorted in a triumphant, chilling smile, a spectral hand pressed mockingly to his own lips.

Parvata Vardini knelt, tears streaming down her face as she cradled Narobha’s punctured body in her arms, a desperate attempt to hold onto the life that was rapidly escaping away.

Through Narobha’s eyes, however, Maran Saththan’s form seemed to thickened, the spectral figure lifting him with unnatural ease, pulling him into a cold embrace.

“You haven’t died yet?” Narobha choked out, his voice a bare whisper.

The figure of Maran Saththan threw back his head, a booming, spectral laugh that seemed to physically shake the very foundations of the terrace, sending terrified parrots scattering from their roosts outside. “I was waiting for you, my impulsive customer! All this time.”

“How…?” Narobha’s eyes flickered, losing focus.

“Ask me why, Narobha,” the spectral voice hissed, laced with ancient malice. “Grudge. I need more blood. I am still so thirsty…”

Narobha’s eyelids fluttered, then slowly, irrevocably, sealed shut. Gently guided by her distraught daughters-in-laws, Parvata Vardini, her heart shattered, finally moved away from the lifeless weight in her arms.

—

MindMap (Click to zoom):

I’m participating in #BlogchatterA2Z

Note:

• This fiction is a retelling of a mythology.
• Images generated with ImageFx of Google Gemini.
• Awkward sentences are removed by AI for a smoother reading experience.

Recap:

Valli narrates the growing tensions within the royal court. Narobha’s neglect of his duties and his favoritism towards his concubine, Neeli, have created a rift. Rumors and gossip spread, fueled by Neeli’s growing influence and her supporters. Pasupati, the son of Tungabhadra, witnesses the growing animosity and the subtle undermining of his position.

Chapter 17/26: Quietude Quashed

Part 1/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’

Valli‘s words hung in the air, heavy with the wisdom of observation. “Maharani,” she continued, her voice steady, “like frogs content in their well, believing all danger lies within its rim, Pasupati and Jeyasinghan are limited by their own narrow perspectives. Like crabs in a pit, pulling each other down, neither can truly escape the cycle. This large conflict, as you see, began with those small sparks. Pasupati foresaw that the temple incident, that verbal assault on his mother by Neeli‘s people – women from the village of Narobha‘s concubine and Jeyasinghan’s mother – was a likely ignition point. And as he predicted, it was.”

Valli paused, then continued, “That very night, Pasupati was met with Jeyasinghan’s drunken fury. Jeyasinghan, astride his wild horse, howled challenges outside Pasupati’s home. Pasupati, hearing the slurred words, knew the toddy had taken hold. Neeli, present but at a distance, joined her son in his verbal attack. ‘If you have anger for us, coward, face me!’ Jeyasinghan roared. ‘Why take it out on my people? What right do you have to yell at them?'”

Pasupati, attempting to de-escalate, called out, ‘Why shout from the street, Jeya? Come inside. Let’s talk.’

But Jeyasinghan’s intent was clear. ‘I’m not here for pleasantries. Tell me, how dare you treat my people so rudely?’

Pasupati, struggling to maintain his composure, replied, ‘I treat everyone fairly. You don’t know what they said. You should be grateful I didn’t punish them, out of respect for you and your mother.’

Then Neeli intervened, her desperation to bring the queen’s twin marriages into public discourse evident. ‘I know what they said! And what was wrong with it? Shall we gather the court and have them repeat their words?’

Pasupati countered, ‘Such language is unacceptable. You are a leader to those people; you should guide them towards better behavior. But if you come to me with arguments, how can I?’

Neeli’s tone sharpened. ‘Are you advising me? You are not the crowned prince, are you? Despite you have married with kids, but the King hasn’t crowned you as prince yet. So, know your place and be silent. I am not accustomed to use delicate words your mother favors. For a woman of the land like me, decisions are clear, language is direct, and actions are bold. Remember that. Come, Jeya.’ With that, she and Jeyasinghan turned and left.

Valli’s voice grew softer. “Anger surged through Pasupati. Humiliation at being spoken to that way in front of his guards stung him. He longed to speak with his father, but knew Narobha would likely be at Neeli’s residence. He resolved to wait until morning. Yet, soon after going back to his home, an attendant arrived with a message: Narobha wished to see him.”

‘Where?’ Pasupati asked.

The attendant, eyes lowered, replied, ‘The Small Queen’s residence.’

Pasupati’s anger flared anew. ‘Small queen? There is no big or small queen. There is only one queen – my mother. If you cannot understand that, you should leave this country.’

The attendant stammered, ‘Sorry, Prince. The King is in ‘that’ house.’

Pasupati refused to go. Later, the attendant returned, insisting it was an order from Narobha.”

Humiliated and resentful, Pasupati finally went. He found Narobha drunk, his words slurred with toddy. The King questioned Pasupati’s behavior towards Neeli and her people, his patience already frayed. Pasupati, seeing the futility of arguing with a drunken man, simply said, “Let’s talk tomorrow, Father,” and left.

Valli’s tone became tinged with sadness. “Pasupati was acutely aware of the shift in Narobha since Neeli’s arrival. The once familiar sight of Narobha and Parvata Vardini together, in the park or by their banyan tree was now rare. When the roof has a gap, the leak is inevitable. Pasupati’s pain intensified during the next harvest festival.”

The harvest festival was a spectacle. Temples overflowed with offerings. Carts lined up, laden with paddy, sugarcane, and millets. Donations were meticulously sorted, destined for treasury, storage, or workshops. Different farming clans held unique relationships with their goddesses, like a mother to her children. But the farmers of Panai Kulam, the village where blacksmith Maran Saththan had been murdered, considered the goddess their sister. They arrived in new clothes with many oxcarts full of their offerings, wanting their ‘sister’ to see how well they were doing. They even sought special privileges for exclusive rituals.

After the pooja, a grand feast was held by residents of Panai Kulam, followed by games for all ages. A playful wrestling match for the young men of Taravati drew the attention of the young women.

Pasupati, accompanied by his loyal Nambi, watched from the sidelines. The victor was a childhood friend.

“Shall we test our strength, Prince?” he asked playfully.

“Not as Prince, but as friend,” Pasupati replied with a laugh, preparing to join in. He quickly pinned his friend. Offering a hand up, he smiled.

Valli’s voice grew tense. “Then Jeyasinghan arrived, his presence a challenge. ‘Test yourself against a real man, not someone who will yield. Show me your strength!’ The match began, aggressive from Jeyasinghan’s side, Pasupati focused on defense. But anger clouds skill, right? Jeyasinghan made blunders, and Pasupati swiftly capitalized, throwing him to the ground. Again, Pasupati offered his hand. But humiliation and rage twisted Jeyasinghan’s actions.”

Valli’s tone dropped with a note of horror. “In a shocking act of malice, Jeyasinghan kicked Pasupati below the belt. A cry of pain ripped through the air as Pasupati fell. Jeyasinghan stood and kicked him again, the sound sickeningly loud. Pasupati lost consciousness. When the other wrestlers protested, Jeyasinghan, his fist clenched, sneered, ‘I am the prince. Do you value your heads?’ He turned his back on the fallen Pasupati, mounted his horse, and rode away.”

Valli’s voice softened again. “Narobha came to Pasupati’s residence, where he lay injured.”

“Don’t take it to heart, Pasupati,” he said, his words hollow. “He might not have meant it.”

Pasupati, his voice laced with pain, replied, “A king must deliver justice. Without it, the country falls to criminals.”

Narobha offered no response, the indirect accusation of his favoritism hanging heavy in the air. He simply instructed the medics and left. Pasupati watched his father, his once idealized figure, retreating from his role. A chilling realization dawned: his father, the king, had abandoned him.

Valli concluded, her gaze steady. “Clashes between father and son are one thing, Maharani. But when they fester into a feud, the damage is profound. Children forsaken by their fathers are like rootless plants. Offer them all the support in the world, and they will still struggle to stand on their own.”

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Note:

• This fiction is a retelling of a series of historic events.
• Images generated with ImageFx of Google Gemini.
• Awkward sentences are removed by AI for a smoother reading experience.

Recap of the Story Until Chapter 15:

Valli narrates the story of Narobha’s rise to power, marked by treachery and ambition. He becomes emperor, but his past returns when he brings his first wife, Neeli, and their son Jeyasinghan, to the palace. This revelation shocks Parvata Vardini and creates tension, as Neeli’s influence grows and rumors spread.

Chapter 16: Orchestrated Opinions

Part 1/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’

Valli threw her small seashells once again, counted the face and back, and went silent within herself. “Human minds wish for something at the cost of blood, Maharani,” she began her delivery.

The humid air hung heavy as Kesi Mami and Janaki Mami made their way back from the Manvi River after their sacred bath for the Aadi-perukku festival. The path was dusty, and the rhythmic swish of their wet sarees was almost the only sound, besides their soft footsteps.

Kesi Mami sighed, adjusting the pot of river water she carried on her hip. “Did you notice, mami? The Rani doesn’t walk to the Bodhisattva temple with the King on the full moon nights anymore.”

Janaki Mami nodded, her brow furrowed. “Yes, it’s been several months now. Remember how they used to go every single time? It was such a beautiful sight.” She paused, glancing around to ensure no one was too close. “People whisper, you know. They say the King spends his time with that Neeli, drinking toddy instead.” A shadow of disapproval crossed her face. “It can’t be easy for our queen, having to go alone. It makes the King look bad, and it makes her look bad too.”

A little further down the path, Kesi Mami spoke again, a touch of wistfulness in her voice. “Time has flown by so quickly, hasn’t it? Our young princes, Pasupati – Tungabhadra’s son – and Parameswara – Narobha’s son –, are married now. Pasupati has that lovely boy, Brahmadasan SriKrishna, such a bright child. And Parameswara has a son and daughter, Anirudhdhan Chandramurti and Sudakshina Vaijayanti.” She smiled, a grandmotherly warmth in her eyes. “Imagine, our Rani is a grandmother now! It feels like just yesterday they were little boys running around the palace.”

Janaki Mami chuckled softly. “Indeed. Life moves on, whether we are ready or not. You too got grey hair. But our queen has raised them well, despite all that has happened. It’s a blessing to see them with families of their own.”

“Yes,” Kesi Mami replied, “the country has been stable for twenty years now. But the tension between the queen’s son, Pasupati, and Neeli’s son Jeyasinghan is noticeable in some areas. And Neeli still causes our queen worry. Even though our queen has brought us peace, I can’t help but wonder how peaceful she herself truly is.” She sighed.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the image of the Queen, now a grandmother, likely lingering in both their minds.

One full moon night, Narobha did not turn up for the temple as usual. Parvata Vardini walked with her grand-kids, looking like a mother hen leading her chicks, their cheerful ‘kweek’.. ‘kweek’.. following her along the way. People were happy to see the young kids and greeted them. One old coconut vendor, Satayan, ran towards the kids SriKrishna, Anirudhdhan, and Sudakshina and offered them tender coconuts. SriKrishna said, “No, I can’t take it. I can’t eat something for free. At the same time, I do not have anything to offer you in return.”

On hearing this, Satayan fell at the foot of Parvata Vardini. “Oh, my mother, you saved my country when the twin murders shook it. You raised your kids and grand-kids with virtue. I have no concern for the next two generations. Taravati will flourish. No doubt..”

“Coconuts are boring… They will spoil in a day or two… Ingots won’t,” the lunatic Sivappi murmured, rudely interrupting their discussion as she passed. “There is no limit to her lunacy,” Satayan threw a coconut shell towards her. “Hey Satayan. Stop! You might hurt her…”

Suddenly, another young boy appeared and challenged Satayan, his voice rising as he said, “I’m hungry! You didn’t give me coconut, but you’re giving it away to them, how?”

“You little spirit. Go get me money.”

“Ey you oldie, I’m hungry! You’re just giving that out for free. Why not me?” The kid stood his ground, unwilling to leave.

“This is for the queen, understand? I am giving it to her. You have no claim to it. Now, leave…”

The boy faced the queen directly. “Hey Ranimma, I’m hungry. You’re the Rani, so you must have lots of food. Give me something to eat. I’m starving.” He rested a hand on his stomach.

“Hey, you little devil! Have you no fear, no sense of who you’re talking to?” Satayan pulled him back.

Smiling at Satayan, Parvata Vardini interjected, “Don’t scold him.” She then turned her attention to the child. “Tell me, boy, what’s your name?”

“I’ll tell you my name, but only after you give me something to eat.”

With a gesture, she asked Satayan to give the boy one, then turned to him. “Don’t you have any fear or respect when speaking to elders and queens?”

Having finished slurping his coconut, the boy, his little stomach now bulging with coconut water, let out a small burp and asked, “Why should I be afraid? Did I do something wrong or what?”

“Alright then,” Parvata Vardini said with a smile. “Now, tell me your name.”

“Panbah,” was his swift reply, and he disappeared with the speed of an arrow. The queen smiled and then addressed Satayan, “Interesting chap, ask his parents to come and see me,” before taking her leave.

Two women from Neeli’s village, standing near the shop, murmured to each other, “Look how life turns… A woman of the streets became the country’s queen.”

“Who are you talking about?” the other lady asked.

“Who else would it be? The one walking over there… Who else is likely to give birth to two kings?”

Lost in their talk, the women didn’t notice Pasupati, Son of Tungabhadra, emerge from the temple. He rushed over and his voice was sharp as he warned, “Only because you are women you escape from my sword now. Else, your head would be rolling by now. Consider this your final warning: leave this country and never return. If I see you again, I will not be so lenient.”

Pasupati’s face flushed crimson; he couldn’t believe anyone would speak of his beloved mother that way.

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Note:

• This fiction is a retelling of a mythology.
• Images generated with ImageFx of Google Gemini.
• Awkward sentences are removed by AI for a smoother reading experience.

Mindmap (Click to zoom)

Recap:

Valli recounts the aftermath of Tungabhadra’s assassination, highlighting Narobha’s ascent to power through treachery. The council debates the future, and a pregnant Parvata Vardini yearns for escape. Encounters with the enigmatic Sivappi and gossiping townswomen reveal the kingdom’s shifting dynamics and the queen’s inner turmoil.

Chapter 15/26: Overture of Acceptance

Part 1/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’

It was after dinner. Valli and Queen Parvata Vardini were inside the war room, and Valli’s tone was happy then.

“You started smiling after the birth of your first son, Vallabhan Pasupati, son of Tungabhadra, didn’t you? You were in heaven when Bharatan Parameswara was born to Narobha (a) Narasingha Sudan. Unlike the past, both kids were fond of their mother and made you happy. You enjoyed their childhood as mother Yasodha raised Srikrishna, and Parvati raised Kartikeya who is the son-in-law of our klang. They grew from toddlers to boys, and from boys to youth. Still, their love for you did not diminish. You and Narobha decided not to tell Pasupati that he is the son of Tungabhadra. So, all the kids treated Narobha as their father.”

“Narobha took care of politics, while you became compassionate towards the citizens. He built up the military force. You built temples, monasteries, and anna-chatra-s. Both of you ruled this country not as a king and queen, but as father and mother,” Valli continued.

But the emperor Maha Kala, the emperor on the other side of the Mount Ranadhira, was unhappy about Narobha after the murder of his trusted lieutenant Tungabhadra, the previous king assassinated by Narobha. In addition, Narobha did not want to pay tax. Maha Kala sent his diplomats a couple of times. As Narobha’s response was poor, he dispatched a provoking letter.

“To the king of Taravati – since your assumption of power, the tax collection from Taravati is pending. Taravati is a vassal of Durgavati; you are to send the tax in wooden boxes carried by eight chariots pulled by fourteen horses each, within next 2 weeks. If not, abandon your kingdom and flee into the forest. Upon failure to comply with this letter, the King of Durgavati will come, chop off your head, and seize all your possessions as war booty. Your palace will be destroyed, and your queen will become his concubine.”

The impulsive Narobha slapped his hand on the armrest and shouted at his army chief, “Prepare chariots, elephants and horses, not with tax, but with our soldiers!”

In no time, both forces met at Valanaadu plains. It was a tough war. But Narobha’s actions were cruel. He avoided fighting with Maha Kaala directly. Instead, each day, he fought with Maha Kaala’s sons and killed them one by one. By the end of the fourth day, Maha Kaala had lost all his sons and was mentally broken. On the fifth day, it was not difficult for Narobha to defeat Maha Kaala. With his axe, Narobha disarmed Maha Kaala. As Narobha approached him, Maha Kaala took his short sword from his hip, cut his own throat, and collapsed from the elephant’s back.

Since that moment, Narobha became the sole king of both countries, and he became an emperor. The news reached Parvata Vardini. After two days, the forces entered the city of Taravati with a great roar. With people hailing their king, the procession reached the doorsteps of the Taravati palace.

Holding a thalam – the welcoming plate with an oil lamp and another with auspicious items like flowers and betel leaves – Parvata Vardini awaited her victorious warrior-husband. As the king descended from his chariot, she greeted him with “Welcome, Maha Kala-Bhairava!” – the one who killed Maha Kala – presenting the lamp and applying a thilak, the victory mark, to his forehead. The crowd erupted in a resounding cheer of “Jai Shri Maha Kala Bhairava!” announcing the title she had bestowed upon him. Parvata Vardini watched their enthusiastic response with pride and joy.

Before the excitement subsided, Narobha turned back towards his chariot and said, “Come…”

Parvata Vardini was confused when a woman accompanied by a young man, looked to be her son, got up from the chariot, stepped down, and stood with him. The crowd stopped roaring, and Parvata Vardini was shocked.

“She is…” Narobha began to introduce. Parvata Vardini gave the thalam to one of her attendants and went inside the palace.

“The male mind is a monkey mind, dear queen! It will grab something out of curiosity. Before it is satisfied, it will grab something else. Narobha is a typical male: impulsive, hungry for power, and prone to dalliances with women,” Valli said with displeasure.

It was Neeli, Narobha’s childhood sweetheart and secret wife, was a cockfight gambler. She was the one who saved Narobha when villagers attacked him for burglary. The boy with them was Jeyasinghan, their son. Parvata Vardini was deeply depressed by what Narobha had done. While such things were not uncommon for kings, one thing Parvata Vardini could not accept was that Narobha had hidden this marriage from her, and she felt utterly deceived.

Over time, Neeli’s sphere of influence increased. She brought her own people for her and her son’s safety. A new residence was built for her on the northern side of the city, near the port. She started rumors about Pasupati and Parameswara, the sons of Parvata Vardini, saying Jeyasinghan was the elder of the three and was more stubborn, skillful, and capable of fighting wars.

Wherever Narobha and Parvata Vardini went, like temples, fields, or public meetings, Neeli deliberately went there and stood beside Narobha. People were not happy about her. Wherever she went, she was treated as a concubine of the king, not as his queen. So, Neeli brought a few more people from her village and made them residents of Taravati city to execute her agenda.

Neeli’s people mingled with the public and started spreading favorable stories about Neeli while spreading rumors about Pasupati and Parameswara as being impotent.

Narobha, though he knew, did not react much. Parvata Vardini managed to survive because of her sons and the single banyan tree on the bank of Manvi, where she used to sit to burst her stress.

The river Manvi flowed with quiet peace, a stark contrast to Parvata Vardini’s bustling thoughts.

I’m participating in #BlogchatterA2Z

Note:

• This fiction is a retelling of a mythology.
• Images generated with ImageFx of Google Gemini.
• Awkward sentences are removed by AI for a smoother reading experience.

Mindmap (Click to zoom):

Recap:

Valli narrates the tale of Narobha, driven by ambition and lust for Queen Tara, orchestrating King Tungabhadra’s assassination with a cursed Keris. He frames his friend Nagalingam for the murder, inciting a mob to kill him, and then presents himself as the kingdom’s savior. Parvata Vardini is left in shock and a complex mix of emotions.

Chapter 14/26: Nuances of Negotiation

Part 1/2 of the novella ‘The cursed keris of Taravati’

“Oh, the one with peaceful eyes,” Valli murmured, “barely weeks after Tungabhadra’s pyre had cooled, a fragile quiet settled over Taravati. You carried the kingdom’s future within you, the heir conceived, and so a constant stream of ministers and healers attended your every need. You were adrift, my queen, unsure of which way to turn. But everyone had an opinion. But everyone, it seems, becomes an expert on another’s life, offering their pronouncements without a moment’s thought for the impact, my queen.”

Valli continued her narration…

A deep yearning stirred within Parvata Vardini – to shed the weight of her coronation name and return to her father’s house, simply as Tara. She sighed.

Just then, a security guard entered, announcing the arrival of a Buddhist bikshu. With a nod of assent, Parvata Vardini granted him entry.

A slender bikshu, appearing barely out of his teens, entered the chamber.

Parvata Vardini rose to greet him. Without uttering a single word, the young bikshu extended his hand, offering something wrapped delicately in Chinese silk. Parvata Vardini accepted the offering with a silent nod. Then, with the same swift, wordless grace, he turned and departed.

Once assured of complete solitude, Parvata Vardini carefully untied the knot on the sleeve, the gift from the bikshu. Within lay a palm leaf, meticulously folded and bearing a seal. With delicate precision, she broke the seal and unfolded the brittle leaf. The inscribed letters read:

If an alternative easier choice lies readily before you, the choice will feel easy. But when you overlook the familiar and discover a new way, that is when true growth occurs.
Manju Natha

She stood up with some effort with a sigh, due to her pregnancy. Without a moment’s hesitation, she held the palm leaf to the nearby flickering flame of the oil torch. It caught fire instantly, the script curling and blackening before dissolving into ash.

That day held a different weight. The chief minister and the head priest, accompanied by Narayana Bhattar, arrived for a crucial discussion. The minister proposed Narobha as the next ruler, highlighting his existing acquaintance with the royal family. He further emphasized the widespread disapproval of Tungabhadra’s actions against dharma, suggesting that this presented an opportunity to regain public favor. Narobha, the minister argued, could effectively bridge that gap.

Parvata Vardini recognized the subtle influence of Narayana’s hand in these carefully chosen words. Her gaze turned, sharp and unwavering, fixing on him. His eyes flickered downwards, settling on the floor.

Clearing her throat, Parvata Vardini’s voice, though steady, held a pointed edge. “Where were you that night?” she inquired, the question hanging heavy in the air, the unspoken reference to Tungabhadra’s murder.

Visibly thrown off balance by her directness, Narayana stammered slightly. “I… I traveled to Durgavati to acquire necessary items for the temple and my own household. I have a certain… aversion to the Kaniyan Koothu, Maharani. So, I preferred to be away. However,” he quickly added, steering the conversation back to safer ground, “I remain committed to my promises.” He then smoothly transitioned back to the minister’s suggestion. “When one occupies a position of public life, especially carrying the baby of the royal lineage, Maharani, certain boundaries are unavoidable in your existence.”

“You still have a life to live, Maharani. At the same time, the stability of this nation demands a strong palace, projecting unwavering authority to both our people and potential adversaries. Furthermore, the rightful lineage of the king, your son, must be restored to the throne. Narobha can serve as a vital bridge, providing support and leadership until your son reaches the age for his coronation.”

With the discussion concluding without a resolution, the room emptied.

It was some time after sunset, and the moon rose. Parvata Vardini looked quiet, yet her mind was storming in contrast. With her pregnancy not far off, she walked alone and reached the single banyan tree on the banks of Manvi. She sat on the resting platform and looked at the glitters of the moonlit river.

“Do you have ingots?” The voice drifted down from the dense canopy of leaves. Startled, Parvata Vardini’s gaze snapped upwards. Perched on a branch directly across from her, sat Sivappi, the village lunatic.

Leaning precariously against one branch, while seated on another just below, Sivappi let her spindly legs dangle in the air. With painstaking slowness, she dried her soaked hair, evidence of a recent bath. The strong wind whipped her white strands into a frenzy, making her resemble a spectral betal, her pallid form accentuated by a white sarong, white hair, and bare chest.

“Why are you staring at me? Don’t have any ingots, or what?” Sivappi planted her hands on either side of the thick branch supporting her back. “The moon,” she declared, tilting her head towards the night sky, “is always solitary, yet it knows no loneliness.” She mumbled to herself for a moment, then continued, “There’s no decree of right or wrong. The moon chose its path. It accepts the consequences.”

Parvata Vardini looked at her, but Sivappi didn’t care. “Life with ingots or life without ingots. The moon chose no ingots. But I chose to search for it.” She gave an unimpressive laugh.

“Hey, get lost, you crazy old hag!” Narobha strode into view.

“Crazy? .. me? And what about you?” Sivappi retorted, then agilely swung herself to another part of the tree. The queen observed her fluid movement, like a wild monkey leaping effortlessly through the branches.

“I came to meet you, esteemed queen,” Narobha said, turning his attention to Parvata Vardini.

Kesi Mami and Janaki Mami finished their prayers at the Ananta Sayani Kesava Perumal temple. They settled down on the temple’s outer walkway and began to chat.

“It’s been over two years, Mami,” Kesi said to Janaki.

“Since you had your fun with your husband?” Janaki replied with a hint of sarcasm.

“Shhh… this is a temple… No, that’s not what I meant. It’s been over two years since our former king, Tungabhadra, was murdered,” Kesi clarified, starting their conversation.

“Oh, that… Yes. I was so frightened by that twin murder. It was a terrible thing. I worried our country would fall into chaos,” Janaki agreed and continued, “Luckily, our queen took control and brought the country back to order. If she hadn’t… well, only Ananta Sayani knows what would have happened.”

“Yes, I do wonder how she agreed to marry Narobha, her own military leader. But it hasn’t been bad, you know. He’s changed a lot since the wedding. Unlike Tungabhadra, he follows what’s right; he respects Shaivite, Vaishnavite and Buddhist teachings. It’s all thanks to Ananta Sayani‘s kindness,” Kesi praised.

“True, Mami. He is not Narobha any more. He is Maharaj Narasingha Sudan.” She smiled and continued “Some people say it wasn’t Nagalingam who killed Tungabhadra. Did you hear that?” Janaki added, joining the rumor mill.

Kesi nodded, indicating she’d heard the whispers. “Those were such dramatic times. People say Narobha too was involved, with help from his friends and…” she glanced around before continuing, “…the previous head-priest of this temple, Narayana Bhattar. Did you see how much he received in donations from King Narasingha Sudan?”

“Yes, seven veli-s of land near the lake, and he was promoted to an advisor to the king. He also donated generously to Nagalingam’s family and the blacksmith Maran Saththan’s family. But they are both dead. Why would the king donate to them? That’s where the mystery lies,” Janaki pondered.

“Who knows? As long as our lives aren’t affected, it’s fine. But look, now that the country is stable, we see traders arriving from the dynasties of Chola from west and Song from east,” Kesi observed. “But marrying Narobha while carrying Tungabhadra’s child? Wasn’t that terrible, Mami? Within months of the marriage, she gave birth to Vallabhan Pasupati, Tungabhadra’s son. And just now, she delivered Bharatan Parameswara, Narobha’s son.” Kesi looked into Janaki’s eyes, expressing her concern.

“Do you think she was wanted it? Becoming queen wasn’t her choice either. Tungabhadra abducted her… Who knows what pressure she was under? Maybe she made that decision for her baby and for us, the citizens. She also advised Narobha to abandon his bad intentions and follow the path of Dharma. Besides, the country clearly knows who the next king will be. It will be Pasupati. So, the country will be peaceful for the next generation, right? No more bloodshed,” Janaki reasoned thoughtfully.

“That’s true, Mami. Since she became queen, this country feels blessed. She’s not just a queen; she’s like a mother-figure for Taravatians.”

Their conversation ended as they decided it was time to leave the temple.

I’m participating in #BlogchatterA2Z

Note:

• This fiction is a retelling of a mythology.
• Images generated with ImageFx of Google Gemini.
• Awkward sentences are removed by AI for a smoother reading experience.